Tending Your Watson
by SweetChi
Summary: A collection of one-shots written for Watson's Woes.
1. Nodding Off

**Nodding Off**

As John dove through the doorway after the man he'd been chasing, he wasn't paying much attention to his surroundings, he was only focused on grabbing the man they'd been searching for all day. There was no way he was spending _another_ day listening to Sherlock complain about the above-average hiding abilities of a petty drug smuggler.

So, when his running tackle hit the man mid-back, he was less concerned with the table they crashed into and more mentally celebrating his victory – already planning ahead to a dinner at Angelo's and the peaceful night of sleep he always got after a case was finished, when Sherlock was as tranquil as he ever got.

It wasn't until the white powder filled the air that he thought there might be a problem.

_Bit not good. Bit not good, at all._

He coughed and choked as he inhaled a mouthful, but that just made him suck in more. Soon, fresh air became more of a priority than keeping his grip on the drug smuggler, so John released him in favor of searching for the exit.

Then time seemed to… _slip _a little.

John found himself sitting on the floor of the slowly clearing room, blinking slowly and feeling decidedly relaxed about… well, _everything_. He wasn't so worried about the guy he'd been after getting away anymore, but was still pleased to see he was sitting only a few feet away from him. Eyes half-lidded and pupils shrunken to pinpricks, he gave John a slow grin.

"John?" He heard Sherlock call from down the hall.

"Hmm?" He answered. Forming actual words just seemed like so… much… work.

Shoes slid into view a second later. Nice shoes. Must be comfortable, too. Didn't look like they would be - looked a bit stiff. But Sherlock ran all around the city in them, so they must be. With as much as he probably paid for them though-

"John!" Sherlock barked in his face.

"Where'd your shoes go," he asked in bewilderment, staring back at the detective who was suddenly right _there_.

His eyes really were an amazing color. Like an overcast day. But… Shiny…

Hands were on the side of his face, thumbs pulling at his eyelids. He felt like he should complain, but… _nah_. Sherlock was smarter than him, probably had a really good reason to poke at his eyes like that. A chill worked its way down his spine, giving him goose bumps and making him shiver. It was gone as quickly as it started, but the muted doctor part of him fuzzily hoped he wasn't getting the flu.

Sherlock's hands disappeared, leaving John's cheeks feeling oddly cold. He was going to look for him, but his eyes didn't seem to want to leave the smooth layer of settled powder they'd landed on next to him. Looked like snow, really. Like when he and Harry were kids and would go out into the field behind the house… All smooth and untouched, they couldn't help themselves, they'd have to run through it yelling and creating chaos in perfection. He smiled and walked his finger through the little unspoiled heroin field.

"What's it cut with?" He heard Sherlock growl from his right, followed by a scrambling.

The answering giggle made him curious enough to finally tear his eyes away from the floor next to him. Sherlock had the man he'd been chasing up against the wall, hands twisted in his shirt front. But he was just laughing and smiling back like he didn't mind at all. Nice guy, there, to not mind being manhandled like that.

"It's not," the man said, his laughter gaining speed. "It's not cut with _anything_. All pure, baby! Can't you feel it? It's making the fucking _air_ buzz."

John joined his laughing, even as another chill ran through him.

"It really _is _buzzing," he said defensively to Sherlock's sharp look.

But his laughter died away it occured to him that the buzzing wasn't really pleasant. It was giving him a bloody headache, actually. He brought a hand up to rub at his face, but was stopped by strong fingers wrapping around his wrist.

"Let's wash up a bit first," Sherlock suggested, making John realize his hand was covered in white powder.

He wondered about the oddly soft tone to his friend's usually razor-sharp voice, but the flexing of his own fingers was incredibly distracting. The way they curled in and out, in and out, in and-

Sherlock was tugging on him and, uncaring, John went along - listening with half an ear as his friend snarled into his phone at someone while John continued to watch his own fingers.

Resigned to the fact that his hands were _really _amazing, he moved on to other, more important matters as Sherlock ushered him forward awkwardly. Like how heavy his legs felt. Or how _thirsty _he was. And how his chest was starting to feel kind of achy. He shivered again. Actually, it was more of a whole body shudder this time, making his head pound even worse.

He really wasn't feeling very well…

They'd only gotten three steps out of the room when he vomited the biscuits and tea he'd had earlier all over Sherlock's nice shoes.

"Sor-"

The room tilting wildly and his stomach twisting painfully cut off his words. He could hear a siren in the distance and Sherlock bellowing for Lestrade as he kept John from hitting the floor.

All John could think about, though, was how nice Sherlock's coat was pressed against his face and how he really hoped he didn't throw up on it, too…


	2. Think it Over, Think it Under

**Think it Over, Think it Under**

John's hands were steady and his eyes were dry as he went through the flat, boxing up Sherlock's things. Like setting up triage in a war ravaged desert town or explaining to a man why his leg was suddenly gone, it was just one of those things that needed to be done. It was his duty; he trusted no one else with the job.

The experiments went first. The thought that at one point the moment when he could bin all Sherlock's miscellaneous collected body parts had been a fantasy burned hollow in his gut. Careful what you wish for, right? Microscopes, glassware and things he couldn't even guess a purpose for went next. It didn't take long before the kitchen was done.

He eyed Sherlock's closed bedroom door. It was the one he was shying away from most – so he forced himself go in there next. Honestly, he would've liked to have just let it be, but he wasn't sure the madman hadn't had other experiments stashed away in there somewhere, festering and rotting. Plus, he wasn't sure how much longer he'd be able to afford to stay there on Baker Street – he wanted to see to it that Sherlock's things were properly boxed before he went.

The room smelled like him. That was the thought that blasted to the forefront of his mind when he stepped in. An almost sterile scent with a hint of soap and expensive shampoo thrown in - it made his throat close up a little. He swallowed hard and pushed it away. He could break down later, after the work was done.

The room looked clean on the surface, but like Sherlock himself, underneath it was seething with mysterious hidden treasures. He found what looked like a real gold bar underneath the bed along with a woman's wig and two books on how to care for kittens. In the nightstand there was a piece of ancient, half-eaten toast and no less than thirty pencils. The dresser drawers yielded a mobile phone at least five years out of date, a packet of morning glory seeds, some violin strings and one of Lestrade's badges.

Also, under Sherlock's meticulously ordered socks, he found a baggy of cocaine and an old, tattered Winnie the Pooh book. John stared at them blankly for a moment before he started chuckling. Soon, it had bloomed into full-fledged laughter and from there it grew to something manic and almost sobbing. Because, really, what two things could better define Sherlock Holmes? The perfect juxtaposition of innocence and reckless abandon.

Flipping the book open to a random page cut his laughter off like a switch had been thrown.

"_If you live to be a hundred, I want to be a hundred minus one day, so I never have to live without you_."

He shut the book softly and sat it carefully in the box, the simple innocuous quote burned into his head and heart. If only he'd been so smart…

He left Sherlock's bedroom feeling exhausted. Closing his eyes, he leaned against the mantle, trying to find the energy to deal with the rest of his friend's belongings. He wasn't sure how much longer he could stand it…

When he opened his eyes again, it was to meet the bold stare of the skull. He huffed out a humorless laugh and picked it carefully up off the mantle.

"Guess it's just you and me now," he said, his voice rough.

He held it in his hands a moment, wondering how many times Sherlock had done the same as he spewed off random deductions. Morbidly he realized he had a lot in common with his predecessor these days, as he felt just as skinned and hollowed out as the skull looked. Shaking his head, he went to place it back in its designated spot (he'd have to take the bloody thing with him if he was forced to move out, he couldn't bear to pack it away with the rest of Sherlock's things), and as he did, the jaw shifted a bit, revealing what looked to be a corner of a piece of paper. Squinting in confusion, John turned the skull upside down to reveal a square of paper taped inside. After tugging it free and setting the skull down, he unfolded the tiny note.

A series of numbers stared back at him.

His previous melancholy emptiness was usurped by curiosity. What had Sherlock been hiding in there? What could this code-

It was then that he thought of their case with the smuggling ring and the cypher they'd used. These weren't ancient Chinese numbers, but was it possible these numbers were references to words in a book? John's eyes wandered to the bookshelf, the possibilities were vast. How was he supposed to know which one? He had a fleeting thought of how silly he was being. Silly and pathetic, really. His best friend had just died, what did it matter what this little note said? But that thought was pushed aside when his eyes landed on _London: A to Z_.

At first, he was sure he'd gotten it wrong (as he usually did when he tried his hand at puzzling things out). The first two words were both single letter "a"s. But he forced himself to decode the whole thing - he'd gone this far after all, might as well fully indulge this moment of insanity. The next word was Mill, which had his stomach further dropping in disappointment. Then there was NE, as in the abbreviation for northeast. And finally just "the".

AAMillNEthe

Well, that was a waste of time. He tossed the London guide book onto the floor next to the box of things he'd brought out from Sherlock's room. His eyes snagged on that box and refused to move though.

Something…

He scrambled over to it in a moment later as he realized what had been bothering him.

A.A. Milne. The Winnie the Pooh book!

Now what? Looking back at the note he'd dropped in his haste, he wondered what the "the" was supposed to mean. Maybe… Maybe the last number wasn't meant to be translated. Maybe it was just a number. A _page_ number.

He flipped to the designated page with shaking hands, holding his breath as his eyes scanned it.

_"__If ever there is a tomorrow when we are not together, there is something you must always remember: You're braver than you believe, and stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think. But the most important part is, even if we're apart, I'll always be with you."_

Underneath, "_Come if convenient_" was scrawled in Sherlock's looping hand.

Was this- Was this what he thought it was? Was he fooling himself? Was the giddy hope that crashed over him going to come back to bite him? He wondered all these things again and again over the next half-hour as he cried, clutching that children's book to his chest.

In the end, he decided it didn't matter. He'd take hope over despair. Then, at least for this moment, he had something to look forward to, something to fight for, to live for.

Time to find out just how brave, strong and smart John Watson really was.

Dropping the book back in the box, he began pacing; questioning everything he thought he knew so far. He didn't notice it slip slightly and open to a random page as he lost himself in his thoughts.

_"__How lucky am I to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard."_


	3. The Case of the Sticky Sombrero

**The Case of the Sticky Sombrero**

The line in the coffee shop was way too long for the burnt tasting swill they served, but still, Alex found himself waiting anyway. Because even nasty coffee was better than no coffee after the night he'd had. As much as he wanted to crawl in a hole and sleep off his hangover, he'd promised his mum days ago that he'd take a look at her leaky sink. He knew if he tried to put her off, she'd know he was hungover in that weird psychic way she always did. Then there would be the disappointment and the guilt – it was better just to go and be done with it. So yeah, he needed some damn coffee.

That wasn't Alex's only problem though. His thoroughly alcohol soaked brain was trying to put together the hazy pieces from the night before – without much success. He remembered there was tequila involved…

Annnnnd that's about it.

He pulled his phone from his pocket again, hoping some clue would appear. He guessed he should be grateful there were no drunk texts or even any outgoing calls that he'd have to live down, but that didn't help him solve the mystery of why he'd woken up covered in honey and stuck to his kitchen floor wearing nothing but a sombrero.

Still staring at his phone, he shuffled forward half a step, trying to keep that oh-so-important ratio of personal space to illusion of movement intact.

"-is _not _the place to store severed fingers."

Wait. What?

"They needed to be kept moist and damp, John. Your kettle was the perfect place to store them."

"No, Sherlock. Just- No, okay? When I get a new one, you're _not _to use for anything but water, understand?"

"Fine."

"_Plain_ water. No, viruses or bacteria or anything of the like."

"_Fine_," the taller of gay couple in front of him said. Alex swore he could actually _hear _the man's eyes rolling in his tone.

He must've misheard, of course. He smirked to himself, wondering what the guy had really said and why his brain had replaced it with "severed fingers", of all things. Tuning the bickering couple out, he went back to trying to figure out what the hell he'd done last night. There was this fleeting memory of a dark beauty with a sexy, husky voice, but he wasn't sure if that was just wishful thinking/fantasy or not.

Then there was the weird bruise on his forehead the tender spot behind his ear… Plus, he kind of ached all over. He must've run into something. Then… _backed _into something?

"Wrong, wrong, _wrong_," the tall dark haired man in front of him hissed at his other half. "The killer wouldn't have had _time _to remove all the skin. I'm missing something. I need more _data_. Meanwhile, we're wasting time waiting for you to get an overpriced cup of something that will probably taste more foul than the tea you could've made in the finger contaminated kettle."

"I'm not drinking bloody finger remnants. Now, tell me again why you're so sure the killer's a left handed toy maker with a skin condition."

Alex shook his head. Okay, so maybe he _had_ heard "severed fingers" earlier. What the hell were they talking about? A movie? That was probably it. He should try and catch the name of it so he could avoid it - he had a pathetically weak stomach when it came to stuff like that. He'd hate to embarrass himself on a date…

Oh, weak stomach! He remembered puking at some point! Yes! Well, not "yes!" exactly, that wasn't something to exactly cheer about, was it? But it was a start at least. Was there… something _yellow?_ The hazy image in his head was forming something like a thong, but it was a rather _large_ thong…

"No, no John, that's not- Oh, for god's sake," the tall one huffed before rounding on Alex, leaning into his personal space and glaring at him with creepy pale eyes. "You threw a party in which you drank a large quantity of tequila and decided to see if covering yourself in honey would make you tacky enough to adhere yourself to a wall – it didn't, by the way. Then, after abusing your body in such an idiotic manner, you threw up and managed to get your head stuck between the wall and your toilet. Also, the woman you were with last night was actually a man in drag. Now will you silence that tiny pea-sized brain of yours? The sound of rusty wheels turning is distracting."

Alex blinked once. Twice.

"_Sherlock_! For god's sake, you can't just-"

Alex wandered out of the slow moving line in a daze, leaving the freaky psychic and his boyfriend behind and deciding the coffee and his mum's sink could wait – he was going back to bed.


	4. Down the Drain

**Down the Drain**

John awoke to the sound of dripping - a constant, repetitive _plunk_, _plunk_, _plunk _that seemed to reach in and grab his consciousness, pulling it to the surface. As it did, the water droplets' song became the least of his worries.

First off, he was cold. He'd no sooner made the realization than the shivering started. That led to the second discovery – he was hurt. Every tremor than ran through him awoke a new source of pain. His head thudded miserably, making his eyes water; ribs complained with every breath; and… yep, he was pretty sure his leg was broken. On the up side, he didn't think he'd been shot again.

Deciding things could only go up from here, John opened his eyes.

And was promptly proved wrong.

Looking around him (while making an effort to move as little as possible) it became clear that he was in a sewer tunnel. A sewer tunnel that was blocked on both ends by heavy barred grates that looked like they'd been built for one purpose – not to bloody move. The only other opening was far above him – a hole with a ladder that looked like it had rusted through and broken off years ago.

How in the world had he gotten here? And how was he going to get _out_?

His sluggish mind was attempting to answer these questions when he heard a faint bell-like chiming. It took him an embarrassingly long time to realize it was his phone, which was in his pocket. By the time he figured it out and pulled it free it had stopped ringing, but that was alright, because now at least he could call for help. He was fumbling at it with shaking hands and trying to get his vision to focus (_concussion_, his inner-doctor whispered) enough to make a call when it started ringing again – Sherlock's name across the screen.

Sherlock was… _calling_?

"Hello?" He answered warily, sure someone had either knocked Sherlock out and taken his phone or his concussed mind was playing tricks on him.

"John!" Sherlock's voice yelled, making him cringe back as his head gave a particularly nasty throb.

"Sherlock? Why are you calling?"

"You've been missing for _hours_. Where-" The rushed, dare he say _panicked_, voice abruptly stopped replaced by deep breaths.

"Hours? I don't…" John's voice drifted off and he rubbed his face wearily. Everything was so muddled.

He was only slightly surprised when he pulled his hand back to find it sticky with blood.

"John!"

"Stop yelling…"

"Then answer me!" Sherlock snarled, followed by the sound of that deep breathing again. When he continued, his voice was slow and lined with a kind of forced calm. "John, I need you to tell me where you are."

"A sewer."

"A- You're in a _sewer_? Whatever for?" Sherlock asked, that calm slipping slightly.

"Don't know," John answered, resisting the urge to rub his face again – it felt itchy now that he knew there was drying blood there…

"What _do _you know_?"_

"Lots of things. I went to medical school," John said, then paused, knowing something was wrong with this situation. "I… have a head injury."

"Yes, I'd figured that out, thank you," Sherlock snapped. "What I don't know is _where_ _you are _or _how you got there_."

John giggled. "You're in a right snit. _I'm_ the one in the bloody sewer with a broken leg."

"… your leg's broken? I thought you said you had a head injury?"

"I have that, too."

More controlled deep breathing.

"John, I need you to focus now, alright? What is the last thing you remember?"

"I… oh! I was chasing… I don't remember his name. The one with the dodgy beard…"

"Williams, yes, yes. You were chasing Williams and then…"

"He… disappeared? No, that's not right. He went around a corner… and he was gone… But I saw him again…"

"He must've ambushed you. If that's when you sustained your head injury, it explains the confusion. Now, I need you to remember where you were when this happened, John."

As John thought about it he heard Sherlock's muffled voice yelling, "Find that moron Williams, Lestrade! He's done something with John."

"I was looking into that address you gave me…" John said slowly, digging for memories that kept slipping away like water.

"Yes, the one near Charing Cross."

"Right, and… OH! Adam Street! I spotted Williams on the street before I got to the address and chased him – I remember turning onto Adam Street."

"Good, that's good, John," Sherlock breathed in relief, the sound of running feet in the background.

John sighed and did a little careful shuffling so he could lean back against the wall behind him, feeling better knowing that Sherlock was on the case. At least he _was_ feeling better – until the approaching sound of rushing water suddenly reached him.

"Sherlock…"

"It's still raining, John," came Sherlock's tight answer, the sound of running kicking up a notch.


	5. Arising

Note: Continuation of _Down the Drain_

**Arising**

"John!" Sherlock yelled, struggling with the half-removed manhole cover.

He supposed he should be grateful that Williams had left it as he had – there was no way Sherlock would've been able to remove it on his own. As it was, he was barely sliding it over the wet concrete, fingers slipping and regripping in desperation.

Eight and a half minutes had gone by since John's phone had disconnected after the sound of rushing water and a disbelieving curse.

Eight and a half minutes that Sherlock has spent desperately looking for clues on Adam Street in the pouring rain – cursing violently as any hint of dirt scuffs or blood drops were washed away.

Eight and a half minutes of his brain turning against him and showing him in lurid detail what John was probably going through as Sherlock shuffled around an empty street. Of seeing John in his mind's eye – wounded, confused, trapped, faced with rising water, leg broken-

"John!" He tried again, desperate to hear anything other than the sound of water below.

Finally, he managed to shove the cover the rest of the way free of the hole. He wasted no time scurrying down the rusted, slimy ladder, his friends name becoming his mantra.

"John! Can you hear me?"

Nothing.

Sherlock hissed out a curse and moved faster, dread coiling in him as the sound of moving water echoed up to him, louder with each step. Then, there _was _no last step. His foot suddenly hit water and nothing else, sending him scrambling not to fall into the frothing flood below.

Managing to pull his foot back up to the last stable rung, he squatted on it and took in the scene below in a glance. The tunnel, blocked at both ends by large metal grates, was almost completely filled with water – him, on the broken ladder, being just above it. It swept at fast clip from his right to his left-

There!

"JOHN!"

Pressed against the grating, head barely above water, was John. He didn't respond to Sherlock's voice, which was worrying, but he wasn't floating face down either – Sherlock could see a hand latched onto the top of the grating, holding himself up.

Sherlock wasted no time ripping off his scarf and running it through the rungs once before taking both ends back in his hand and stepping into the frigid water. He was lucky John was fairly close; the current was too strong for him to make it back to the ladder with John in tow without an anchoring point and his scarf was all he had.

The water grabbed him as soon as he let go of the ladder, slamming him into the grating next to John. He took in the eyes clenched shut in pain, the fresh trickle of blood from the gash along his hairline and the overly pale tone to his skin. Tired, cloudy eyes snapped open as Sherlock's hand gripped his shoulder.

"Sh'lock," John slurred. He cleared his throat and blinked a couple times, sounding a little stronger when he continued. "You're late."

"Perception. Seems to me I have perfect timing," Sherlock said, eyeing the still rising water with trepidation. "Come, we have to go."

He reached over, wrapping his free arm around John's waist with the intent of dragging him along, but a sharp inhalation and a stuttered breath froze his actions.

"Broken ribs, too," he surmised, pulling his arm back immediately.

"Think they're just cracked," John said tightly. "I can handle it, let's go."

"No, I might break them fully trying to pull you through this current… How are your arms? Can you hold on to me?"

Sherlock watched as John slowly unfurled his fingers from the tight grip they'd had on the grating, flexing them with a wince, before giving Sherlock a nod. After a bit of shuffling and pained grunts from John, they managed to maneuver him into position behind Sherlock, arms wrapped around his chest.

It wasn't far to the ladder, but with John's weight and the current, it took an inordinately long time to reach it. He was breathing heavily by then, arms shaking a little from the strain. Maybe he should reconsider his stance on eating during cases…

"John, I need you to shift your grip so we can climb up some," Sherlock said, guiding John's arms over his shoulders instead of around his chest.

"Like… piggyback?" John asked.

"That's absurd. People neither ride nor carry pigs, and pigs don't ride each other."

"I meant-"

"I know what you meant, and that's equally absurd seeing as your leg is broken and won't be able to grip properly. We just need to get you up a few rungs so you can sit on my shoulders. I'll hold your legs steady, you use your arms to hold us upright, and I'll use my legs to climb-"

"Head trauma," John mumbled into Sherlock's neck. "I caught just about none of that. And I think I'm going to be sick."

"Please, don't."

"…you said please. Didn't think you knew how…"

"If it prevents you from vomiting down my neck, I'll say what I must. Just take some deep breaths and let me know when you're up for moving."

Forcibly restraining himself to not hurry John along with his not being sick, Sherlock mapped out their ascent. It would be slow going. He hoped John could make it all the way – having him passing out while they were climbing would be very bad.

"Okay, let's do whatever we're doing," John finally said, the exhaustion in his voice tugging at something in Sherlock that he quickly pushed away.

After a few moments of straining and a heart pounding moment where John's leg was jostled to the point he almost blacked out, they finally got situated on the ladder, John on Sherlock's shoulders gripping the ladder with his hands while Sherlock held onto John's legs by the knee – carefully avoiding the broken tibia.

"Are you sure about this?" John asked, breathing hard. "Doesn't feel very stable. I don't fancy getting dropped…"

"It's fine," Sherlock said, hoping he was right.

Logically, his plan was sound. But the awkward feeling of having his feet braced on the rungs without his hands counter-support was making him question this idea. They _could_ just wait for Lestrade - even he should be able to deduce where they were and what was going on from Sherlock's discarded coat next to an open manhole cover. But John had already been down here too long. Who knew what bacteria had gotten in that head wound or if he had internal injuries or how severe the break was – no, better to keep moving.

Sherlock's estimation had been correct – it was extremely slow going. The coordination it required would've been difficult on a good day; with John trembling on his shoulders taking shallow breaths, it was anything but a "good day". Minutes ticked by and John grew quieter as Sherlock endeavored to keep him talking. His responses became slower, the shivering harsher. By the time they reached the top, John was down to answering with muted grunts and hums.

With a considerable lack of finesse, John crawled out from the hole, Sherlock trying in vain to guide his broken leg in a way that wouldn't jostle it too much. When John was out of the way of the ladder, Sherlock hauled himself out after him, muscles quivering from exertion.

Where the hell was Lestrade?! He should've been there by now. He'd told the man Adam Street ages ago.

The sound of retching had Sherlock abandoning his fruitless search for the DI in favor of his injured friend, who'd rolled to the side and was vomiting down the hole they'd just climbed out of.

"Sorry," he panted. "Been holding that in for a while."

It was then that something in Sherlock seemed to crack open. Maybe it was the resigned and almost _ashamed_ tone to John's voice; or how he looked somehow diminished in his sodden jumper; or the blood that was still steadily leaking out of the cut on his forehead. Or maybe it was his missing shoes that did it. Because Sherlock, staring at those wet, dirty socks with a hole in one heel was suddenly so irrationally furious that he couldn't even breathe.

Oh, how he was going to make Williams _pay_ for this.

He snatched at his coat, mentally noting in interest that his hands were actually shaking, and ripped his phone from his pocket.

"Where are you," he snarled as soon as Lestrade answered, his voice almost unrecognizable in his fury. "I told you Adam Street. That John was hurt and would need an ambulance. So where the FUCK ARE YOU?"

"We went by Adams," Lestrade answered, sounding more surprised than offended. "There wasn't anyone there!"

"Then you're as blind as you are stupid and useless! Get here! NOW!"

"Sherlock, just-"

He hung up and jammed his phone back in his sodden coat, wondering as he held it if it would be a help or a hindrance if he covered John with it.

"Bit not good, that," John spoke up, voice shaking with the force of his shivering.

"I don't care. I told him where to be and instead he's bumbling around elsewhere like an imbecile. Typical."

He scooted over and settled the coat over John. He was wet, the coat was wet, it was still pouring down rain. It was all so bloody _useless_.

"Why are you so angry?" John asked, sounding genuinely bewildered.

Sherlock couldn't stand it. He swooped in close, thumbs pressing lightly into John's cheek bones and fingers on the side of his head.

"This," he bit out. "This is _unacceptable_. Lestrade is not allowed to be an idiot when it comes to you. Williams is not allowed to put his hands on you. And you, you're not allowed to let things like this happen."

He was breathing hard by the time he was finished and John's eyes were wide and more alert than they'd been since he found him against that grate. Sherlock watched in fascination as his gaze softened and almost visibly filled with warmth, one hand coming up to wrap loosely around Sherlock's wrist.

"I'm okay."

Sherlock's eyes fell shut and the tension seeped out of him, his forehead coming to rest lightly against John's as the sound of sirens approached.


	6. A New Pastime

**A New Pastime**

Lestrade trudged through the front door of 221B Baker Street, looking forward to having this done with and getting home. It had been an incredibly long day - made worse by the fact that he'd managed to spill his coffee on one of the reports he was trying to enter in the computer. And to add insult to injury, it was Sherlock's statement from the previous week's case that got the brunt of the liquid, leaving half of it illegible. Of course the wanker ignored every text pleading with him to at least _call_ him so he could get the information again. He was hoping (probably in vain) to get Sherlock's account again in person with minimal fuss so he could get home.

Stopping at the top of the stairs, he reached for the door knob but was frozen from a yell from within.

"Right there! Harder, harder, harder!"

Lestrade felt his mouth fall open at the barked order from the usual amiable John Watson.

"That makes absolutely no difference, John. It's speed that actually counts."

"Nah, pushing it harder feels better. Try it, you'll see."

Lestrade slowly pulled his hand away from the door knob, struggling to find a reasonable, not gutter related, explanation for what he was hearing.

"That's ridiculous. Why are we even subjecting ourselves to this?" Came Sherlock's deadpan reply, perfectly clear over the background sound of the telly.

"You're the one that was complaining you were bored. Besides, I like it."

"Obviously, _you _would- What is _that?!_"

"Grab it! Grab it!"

_"__How?!_ It won't- Oh!"

"Hey, that was good!"

"Please," Sherlock scoffed, but still sounded faintly pleased. "This is a waste of time. And my finger is cramping."

"Just give it a little-"

"Ohhh!"

The sound of both men's breathy gasps made Lestrade curl in on himself and stumble back from the door a step. Not that there was anything _wrong_ with the two of them getting together, of course. He had money in the pool at work himself. And John was good for Sherlock. He was happy for them. But being happy for them and _hearing_ them were two completely different things. It was a bit like walking in on his parents...

"I'll concede… that was… rather impressive," Sherlock said, breathless and slightly surprised.

"Knew we'd get there eventually. Pretty impressive for your first time."

"I still hold to the fact that this is a plebian waste of time. But lacking anything of any importance to do, I suppose I can see a certain attraction to it."

"So, you want to give it another go then?"

Lestrade didn't wait to hear any more. Once was more than enough, he wasn't sticking around for round two. He'd just make up the missing part of the report…

Inside the flat, Sherlock poked at his remote like it was a dead animal while John meticulously read through the PlayStation menu to reset the game.


	7. Lessons Learned

**Lessons Learned**

"John, I-"

"Don't. Just… Don't, Sherlock."

John did his best to maintain his stoic silence while they climbed out of the cab, but he was tired and in pain, and from the way Sherlock's hands were twitching toward him, he was fairly sure that it showed.

Really, he wasn't that upset – it really had been an accident after all. But it was just the principal of the matter. And, maybe, just _maybe_, it would sink into Sherlock's gigantic brain a bit more if he played at being angrier than he actually was.

Or maybe Sherlock would just delete the whole thing from his hard drive. It was hard to tell with him.

So, he scowled and pulled away from the helping hands that tried to ease him through the front door of 221B – keeping up his stony silence until, about five steps up he felt a cold sweat break out across his brow and decided he needed a little break. Maybe he should've taken those pain meds after all… But he'd wanted to be clear headed for this conversation with Sherlock.

Speaking of, the detective was looking more distraught by the second as John leaned heavily against the railing. As much as he hated looking weak in front of Sherlock, he thought this might be a good time to point out the error of the consulting detective's ways - maybe if it was attached to the image of John's pathetic face in his mind palace or what-the-fuck-ever it would actually be a lesson learned.

"Why did you even have it with you?" He asked, keeping his voice clipped and jaw tight, both from pain and a show of anger.

"I thought we might need it," Sherlock said, then added quietly. "And, really, I _was _right. We did need it."

John jaw actually fell open. "Really? You're going with 'I was right', right now?"

He shook his head and started back up the stairs at a faster clip, true anger edging out the false display and giving him the steam to move faster despite his pain. Who was he kidding, thinking he could actually get Sherlock to admit he'd been mistaken? That his great big brain might not always have all the details worked out?

"You _shot_ me," John said, stopping again and looking back at the detective who cringed away from the words like a dog being scolded with a rolled up newspaper. "You took my gun without asking, carried it around all day, and then, when you used it, you bloody _shot _me."

"The ricochet-"

"Is something you should've accounted for! Or _not_ since you _shouldn't have had my gun in the first place!_" John was breathing hard and the rib that had been broken by the bullet was sending stabs of pain through his side. "You're not trained to use that weapon, Sherlock. It's not something you can just read about and do perfectly. And it's not a toy. You can't just wave around at people like you do the walls."

He turned back up the stairs but was stopped from moving by the blurted, "I'm sorry" from behind him.

"For what?" John shot back immediately, turning back to him. Sherlock blinked in confusion, obviously not expecting that question.

"Why are you sorry, Sherlock?" He pressed. "Because things didn't turn out the way you'd planned? If I hadn't gotten shot, would you think this was all well and good? Are you sorry that you took my gun at all or just that you cocked up?"

"Neither. I'm sorry…" Sherlock paused and raised his chin almost in defiance, looking John directly in the eye as he finished. "I'm sorry that you're in pain. Seeing you like this… Knowing I'm responsible, I hate it. But I'm not sorry I took your gun, because I truly thought it was likely that we'd need it and you wouldn't want to carry it with the Yarders about. And I'm not sorry I shot when that man was threating to stab you. But I'm sorry for the result."

The awkward, stilted apology wasn't really much of an apology at all. Really more, "I feel badly, but I'm not sure why or what to say to make this better. And by the way, my reasoning was sound and I was right. But it's a bit not good that you got hurt and all."

John let out a snort followed by a giggle as he rubbed his face with the hand not pressed protectively to his side. Given his lack of practice, Sherlock's apology wasn't terrible. Okay, yes, it was terrible. But it was still better than nothing. And it was Sherlock, so he supposed he should just be happy he got any expression of regret at all.

"How about next time you just _tell_ _me _you think we'll need the gun and let _me_ decide for myself if I want to carry it? I think I'd rather risk Lestrade catching me with it than get shot any more – I've had quite enough of that, thank you."

Sherlock stayed stuck to the stair below John, kind of leaning back and forth uncertainly, like he wasn't sure if he was going to get yelled at again or not. John turned and started back up the stairs, leaving Sherlock standing silently behind him for about three seconds before he skipped two steps to hover next to him again.

"Guess it's a good thing you're such a crap shot," he teased.

"Maybe… Maybe you could teach me," Sherlock said quietly, hands resuming their twitching, fluttering dance around John as they climbed.

John smiled. Maybe there'd be lessons learned after all. For both of them.


	8. A Series of Unfortunate Events

**A Series of Unfortunate Events**

It started out like any other typical day. Well, as "typical" as days got living with Sherlock Holmes - a gruesome murder, a locked door mystery and a missing ring that had once belonged to a czar or some such ridiculousness. Sherlock made short work of identifying the murderer, who then led them on a merry chase through the late afternoon London streets.

They could see him just up ahead in the alley now, obviously angling to lose them in the busy street at the end. But before he made it there, a moving truck backed out of a side street, blocking the way and forcing the man to dart into a building on his left.

This turned out to be the back door to some sort of small theater practicing a burlesque number and resulted in much screaming of half-naked women and being beat about the head with feathers and lace as they crashed through the dressing room, hot on the murderer's heels.

A pack of stray dogs joined them when they sped out of the other side of the building, barking like mad and wagging their tails as they ran with them. Between the exuberant canines and the fact Sherlock had a purple feather boa tangled around him, John could barely keep up from laughing so hard. Sherlock sent him a glare as he spat purple down from his mouth, but the amusement in his eyes wasn't hidden from John.

Knowing there was no way he was going to outrun them with a dog biting at his trousers, the murderer tried to once again lose them by diving into another building. This one was ancient and dilapidated, but undergoing a massive reconstruction. Machinery, pipes, beams, paint and other such things were piled everywhere, making it more like an obstacle course than anything.

Sherlock, seeing their target trip over a bit of canvas, tried to take him down by jumping over a stack of wood. Unfortunately for him, one of the excited dogs grabbed the end of his coat at the same moment, causing him to more smash and stumble through the pile than actually hurdle it. On the other side, he hits the cart for the mechanical scaffolding before he can regain his footing, where his purple boa gets caught on the lever controlling forward motion.

John, having slid to a stop to avoid joining Sherlock in the woodpile, watched as the scaffolding jerked forward and rammed the heavy, ornate woodwork they'd been installing around the ceiling right above him. Diving to the side as it plummeted toward him, he barely noticed the yellow caution tape he ripped through in the process.

He's heaving a sigh of relief at his close call when the floor beneath him collapses.

The forest of rebars and bare concrete rushing to meet him wasn't a comforting sight.

It was an accident, pure and simple.

A completely random (and idiotic) series of events that cumulated in this moment. Under different circumstances, they'd have been giggling like twelve year old boys over it.

No one could've ever predicted it would end like this. No one could be blamed. When John tried telling Sherlock that, though, all that came out was a mouthful of blood.

He didn't look reassured…


	9. Heat Seeking

**Heat Seeking**

John was always cold.

It wasn't a problem he remembered ever having before Afghanistan. Tour after tour in the blistering desert heat seemed to have permanently changed the way he reacted weather. Psychosomatic body temperature control? He'd better not bring that theory up to Sherlock; he'd be subjecting him to all kinds of tests and experiments…

Winter was the worst, for obvious reasons. Jumper layered over jumper with a coat on top and he could still feel the chill working its way in, bone deep. He fought off another shiver as Sherlock rattled off a list of deductions to Lestrade – trying to keep the instinct at bay to move closer to the consulting detective.

Because Sherlock… Sherlock radiated heat like he was a furnace.

It had to be that coat of his. Probably made with some kind of genetically engineered wool that held ten times as much heat as any other fabric…

Sherlock was many things John was not and would never be. Tall and exotic, brilliant and interesting – and John was fine with that. The one thing he felt true envy over, though, was that _coat_. How he longed to just wrap himself up in it and bask in the _glorious_ _warmth_! Just snuggle down-

"Come along, John. The idiots are done with us for now," Sherlock called as he flounced by, that elusive aura of heat following him.

John finally gave into temptation a week later.

Sherlock had managed to blow out the windows in the flat (again), leaving it so cold that John's teeth chattered and his hands shook as he tried to make some tea. Standing there, waiting for the kettle to boil, he found his eyes wandering to that ridiculously dramatic coat. It even made the corner where the coat rack was look warmer.

Sherlock was in bed, sleeping off a manic four day experimenting session. He'd never know…

Okay, he was _Sherlock_, of course he'd know. But at least he wouldn't _see_.

Soon he found himself standing in front of it, a hand removing it from its hook almost reverently. It was heavy and surprisingly soft. After a furtive glance around and a prayer that Mycroft didn't have any cameras hidden in the flat, John rubbed his cheek on it.

_Nice_…

Then he put it on.

It was ridiculously long on him - he probably looked like a kid playing dress up in his father's clothes (and didn't _that _thought just rub him the wrong way). And it smelled like a million different things that were all so _Sherlock_ - Bart's and chemicals and expensive shampoo and gun powder and old cigarette smoke.

But the way it _felt_ was…

Not really much warmer than John's own coat.

His shoulders slumped in disappointment.

He pulled it off and hung it up again distractedly. He'd felt that heat radiating off of Sherlock, he was _sure_ of it. And not just once. It was every time they were out in the frigid London weather and he stepped anywhere in the detective's orbit.

Distracted by his thoughts, he almost ran into the other man as he shuffled from his bedroom, hair poking in every direction and eyes still narrowed with sleep.

"Tea?" Sherlock asked gruffly as he made his way to his chair.

John's eyes widened as he turned, his body instinctively following that aura of warmth that brush over him. It wasn't the _coat_ that was so warm – it was _Sherlock_. As if all those mental acrobatics he did produced enough energy to turn him into a small sun.

He turned away quickly, hurrying into the kitchen and trying to leave behind the sudden image of wrapping himself in the lanky detective instead of his coat.


	10. The Fever

**The Fever**

It was a quiet night on Baker Street. John was sitting in his chair, reading a new book that Sherlock hadn't yet spoiled by deducing every detail from the cover. Sherlock was studying something with his microscope in the kitchen, pausing every now and then to make notes. Mrs. Hudson was downstairs baking, so the flat smelled like pie.

"Do you think Mycroft might be a werewolf?" John asked, looking up from his book toward the window and cocking his head slightly.

"Whatever you're reading that put such an idiotic thought in your head, burn it," Sherlock answered without missing a beat.

"I'm serious-"

"That makes it worse, not better."

"Haven't you noticed he's never around on nights the moon is full?"

"He-" Sherlock stopped and finally looked up from his microscope, his brow furrowed in thought.

"He doesn't kidnap me. He doesn't stop by. He doesn't even text. Nothing when the moon is full," John said.

He was right…

If Sherlock ticked back his mental calendar, he couldn't find a single instance in years that he'd seen Mycroft on the night of a full moon…

Such as tonight…

John and Sherlock's eyes met, a spark of excitement and intrigue shooting between them. They were down the stairs and out the door before Mrs. Hudson had a chance to even pop her head out.

It wasn't hard to sneak onto Mycroft's property – Sherlock knew all the holes from times his brother tried to forcibly detox him there. They found a surprising number of cars parked in the drive and the distant sound of music floated over the grounds.

Was Mycroft having a _party?_

John looked at him questioningly, but all Sherlock could do was shrug. He'd seen no clues to suggest that his brother throwing _parties _every full moon…

Wiggling through some dense shrubbery, the two carefully peered into a window.

John gasped at the sight and, for once, Sherlock couldn't blame him. Not even _he _had seen this coming. He wished John had been right in his werewolf theory. Anything would be better than this… This… _Disco monstrosity. _

"_Stay, stay, stay, stay, stayin' aliiiiiive'-"_

Mycroft's assistant, clad in a pair of horrifyingly green bellbottoms and a shirt that was tied up under her breasts was doing the Bump with- Was that Moriarty?! It was! In a purple suit with gold chains, no less. Lestrade was to their left - jiving all around in tight shirt that was patterned for inducing seizures.

Sherlock was horrified into silence as Stayin' Alive finished and Dancing Queen started up. It wasn't the intensity of the Hustle going on that burned itself into a corner of his mind palace. No, it was the sight of his brother, in the center of it all, dressed in a white leisure suit with an obscene amount of chest hair on display, pointing and gyrating.

"Dear God," John whispered. "He's… _glorious…_"

"No, John! Don't get pulled in! You must fortify your mind against the disco fever!"

But it was too late, John was already electric sliding through the window, joining Mycroft's dancing minions.

"Nooooooo!"

Sherlock jerked upright on the couch, breathing heavily, one hand still outstretched toward the boogying John. The realization that it had only been a dream had him bonelessly flopping back down in relief. He was busily gathering every scrap of the nightmare for deletion when John came in, carrying bags from the store.

"Alright there?" He asked. "You look a little pale. Well, pal_er_."

"Fine. Fine," Sherlock said, sitting up. "John… how do you feel about… disco?"

John made a face as he walked toward the kitchen. "Hate it. Why?"

"Just making sure…"


	11. Indulgence

**Indulgence**

"Can you imagine what Sherlock would do to _puppies_?" Dr. Watson hissed, clutching the squirming bundles to his chest. "They'd be glowing or growing extra heads or carrying severed parts around the flat. And that's on the _up _side of possibilities. Just… Keep them for the night. I'm sure I can find someone at the clinic to take them tomorrow."

Anthea tried to keep her face locked in polite disinterest, but the little yipping sounds of the tiny white puppy in Dr. Watson's left hand made it very difficult. She'd always loved animals, but given her strange and long hours, it had never been prudent to get one.

"John!" Sherlock called from down the alley.

"Oh sh- Here!" John said, glancing back before thrusting the puppies at her and taking the envelope she'd come to deliver. "I'll, uh, call tomorrow."

Then he was off, running back to intercept Sherlock, apparently.

The brown puppy in her left hand stared back at her with what she could swear was _disdain_, before giving a morose sigh and looking away, hanging limply in her grip. The white one on the other hand was looking at everything and gave her a happy little bark when she met its gaze. She gave into a little smile as she got back in the car – it wouldn't be too much trouble to take them for a night.

As soon as she set them down on the floor of the car, the brown one was off investigating every corner, leaving the white one to follow behind gamely - giving little growls at unfamiliar things when his companion got too close to them. Funny, they reminded her a bit of-

The vibration of her phone drew her attention away from the puppies' explorations. She couldn't help but grimace when she saw who the message was from and what it meant.

Well, couldn't be helped…

Ten minutes later, she walked into Mycroft Holmes office – a puppy in each hand. He simply raised an eyebrow at the unexpected visitors.

"Dr. Watson was worried what your brother might do to them if he took them in while he looks for a permanent home," she explained.

"Ah," Mycroft said, looking at the two with a narrowed, probing gaze – as if he could see every detail of their short existence written on their furry little bodies. "A valid concern. You may leave them here while you take care of this new issue."

Anthea blinked in surprise, but quickly covered it. If Mr. Holmes was fine with puppies running around his office then so was she. As soon as their feet hit the carpet, the brown one was off – zeroing in on the black umbrella by the door.

"No," Anthea scolded, moving to intercept.

"Leave it," Mycroft said with a strange sort of exasperated fondness. "If you take that away he'll just find something less mundane and more dangerous to get into."

Huh, maybe he'd had puppies before…

So, with a final glance back – the brown one was systematically tugging the umbrella from its stand while the white one batted at him and sent nervous little glances at Mycroft – she slipped out with a fleeting thought that she would've very much liked to have been a fly on the wall of that office for the next few hours.

When she came back later that day, it was to find the umbrella completely and utterly destroyed and the puppies passed out by a chair leg, the white one sprawled all over the brown one as if it were afraid it'd sneak away while he was sleeping and get into more mischief without him.

As cute as that sight was, what had Anthea biting the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling, was Mycroft Holmes, jacket off and shirt sleeves rolled up, sitting on the floor next to them, lightly petting the tiny brown head with a single finger. He glanced up at her, apparently completely unconcerned at being seen in such a soft new light.

"You can tell Dr. Watson that there's no need to seek out homes for these two."

The smile broke free as she pulled out her phone. "Yes, sir."


	12. Pillage This

**Pillage This**

"'aybe you shhhhoulda been a pie," John mumbled into Sherlock's armpit.

"And what kind of pie would I be," Sherlock asked, honestly curious about this odd turn of conversation.

John hadn't really been himself since they left the hospital. What had started out as just quiet, sleepy confusion had morphed into something much more interesting as his pain medication had kicked in.

"What kind… No, I mean pirate," John said, sliding bonelessly out of Sherlock's grasp in the general direction of the couch. "Shoulda been a pirate. Less dangerous."

"That could very well be," Sherlock answered with a light huff of laughter that dissolved into an "ooof" of lost air when John's cast wacked him in the ribs as he tried to keep him from slipping sideways off the cushions.

The thieves they'd been chasing the previous night had turned out to be a bit more… _aggressive_ than Sherlock had originally anticipated (really, there was no reason to think they'd resort to such violence given the data at hand on their previous crimes). John had intercepted an incoming crowbar meant for Sherlock's head and had his arm broken for his troubles. He still managed to take out the attacker one handed and had merely shrugged off the pain as they waited for the ambulance – "Better than being shot."

But now that soldier's stoicism was gone, replaced by…

"-pillage and plunder, we rifle, we loot! Drink up, me 'earties, yo ho!"

Sherlock's shoulders shook as he held back his laughter and ran a hand over John's tousled hair.

"Get some sleep, matey. More adventures wait on the 'marrow."

John curled down in the couch a little more, mumbling something like "bloody posh pirate, you are" with a fond grin before closing his eyes.

Sherlock shook his head, still grinning, and headed for the experiment he had waiting in the kitchen, unaware that the adventure was going strong in John's mind…

_"__Oi, Hooper! Get fo'c's'le an' keep yer eyes on that island!" First mate Watson hollered from the row boat as he headed ashore with Dimmock and Lestrade. "Yer in charge of this bunch until I get back wit' the captain."_

_"__Aye, aye, sir," came the rushed response followed by retreating footsteps. A bit weird, that one was, but she'd get the job done._

_The rest of the trip was silent as they came to the island of the devious Lady Adler, where their Captain was being held prisoner. The sound of the water sloshing against the side of the boat was soon over taken by the churning of waves and they scrambled quietly up the sandy beach moments later, swords in hand. _

_Despite their stealth and skill though, it wasn't long before the guards discovered them. Watson thought for a moment that their shiny, zippered, skin tight clothing was strange, but neither Dimmock or Lestrade commented so he let it go. _

_"__Find the Captain, sir," Lestrade said bravely. "We'll send these bilge monkeys to meet Davey Jones."_

_"__Skervy wretches… _Straight _to Davey Jones, they go," Dimmock added, stepping forward and brandishing his… cardboard cup and donut? _

_Again, Watson paused at the thought something wasn't quite right about Dimmock's choice of weapon, but Lestrade nodded his approval, so he left off to find the Captain. Everything would be fine once they got him back…_

_The prison was a labyrinth of stone walls and bars, leading Watson in circles of ever deepening darkness. Finally, he had to give up secrecy in the interest of sight and swiped a torch from a wall. He found Captain Holmes on the lowest level of the prison, where not one bit of moonlight reached. It only served to show how much brighter the man was in comparison. _

_"__Waston!" He said, rushing to the bars, light eyes made fiery with the torches reflection._

_Watson ripped the key from the nearby hook, where it had hung so tauntingly close but still so far from Holmes' reach. He unlocked the door and ripped it open, rushing forward-_

In the kitchen at 221B Baker Street, Sherlock looked up slowly from his microscope as a moaned, "Captain Holmes, sir," came from the couch.

Definitely _not_ dull…


	13. Void

**Void**

The streets were empty; monochrome. Was this how the world was going to be from now on?

John Watson couldn't picture it being anything else.

Not with _him_ gone.

He'd brought color and life back when John thought it was lost – it was only fitting for it to be hollow and ashen now that he was gone.

He'd been walking for hours now. Thinking; trying not to think; fine with being lost; trying to find his way. None of it really mattered, did it?

The black car had shown up about five minutes ago. The first sign of life he'd seen since the cab Lestrade had sent him off in had dropped him off at 221B – where he'd stood for a few minutes before turning away like a stray mutt with its tail between its legs.

That wasn't his home.

He had no home.

His lip curled back. The calm purr of the car stalking him rubbed like salt in wound. The longer it trailed him the more feral he felt. An animal in a trap; a bird missing its wings; a man with nothing to lose.

The gun was in his hand, the trigger pulled. He felt calm. He'd thought the sound would be muted, like everything else in the world now. But it was loud and jarring. As was the sound of the car's tires blowing out as the bullets struck their targets.

The silent stillness settled back around them – the car unmoving now and John frozen with the gun still pointed at it.

Seconds. Minutes. It didn't matter. What difference did time make now?

The back door opened slowly; a tall, somber figure unfolding himself.

"Dr. Watson."

"What good are you?" John rasped, then shook his head. It didn't matter. "Stay away from me, Mycroft. If I see you again, I'll kill you."

His hand had started shaking. Not from doubt - but from fighting the urge to pull the trigger. He forced it down; slipped the gun back in his waistband; walked on.


	14. Surveillance of 221B Baker Street

**Surveillance of 221B Baker Street**

Sherlock froze just as they stepped through the door to the flat. John, who'd been intent on a cuppa after their long night giving statements at the Yard ("We'll do it tomorrow" wasn't cutting it with Greg anymore – he knew better), almost ran into his back. He opened his mouth to ask what was wrong, but Sherlock silenced him with a sharp look and a gesture to be quiet. Tensing for danger, John's eyes swept the room, wishing he had his gun on him.

Sherlock moved further in, eyeing things at random before stopping by the table and grabbing a sheet of paper and a pen. John, still prepared for an intruder, wasn't ready when Sherlock, still bent over the paper, suddenly said in a deep breathy voice "God, John, do you have any clue how hard it was not to rip your clothes off right there in Lestrade's office."

John almost swallowed his tongue as he whipped his head around.

Sherlock stood from his hunched position over the table, holding up a hastily scrawled note -

_Mycroft has had the flat bugged while we were out. We should show my brother why eavesdropping is unwise._

Sherlock waved at him impatiently as he stood frozen, watching the note drop back to the table.

"Uh, right, yes. That would've been… awkward…"

John cringed at the dirty look Sherlock gave him and straightened up a little, finding his soldier's fortitude. Coughing slightly before continuing, he pushed his voice into a deeper register, smoothing it out.

"Nothing's stopping you now."

Sherlock gave a tiny quirk of his lips and a nod of approval. He kicked out at a pile of books, sending them toppling as his eyes went back to scanning the room.

"Oh, so good," he moaned.

"Sherlock!" John added, smiling as he got into playing along.

"Oh, John, do that thing, the one that I love so," Sherlock went on, his breathy voice completely at odds with the look of concentration on his face as he dropped to the floor to peer under the table.

John floundered for a second before smirking deviously.

"Maaaaaaaaah," he bleated, giving his best goat impersonation.

There was a loud bang as Sherlock jerked upright before he'd fully come out from under the table, smacking his head on the underside and upsetting everything piled on top. The look of shock and then pure malicious glee that overcame his face made John feel strangely smug. The strangled tone as Sherlock tried not to laugh fit nicely into the act as well.

"Oh, John… Yes! Do at again, and touch me here!"

John bit his knuckle to keep the laughter from bursting out and after a second was able to get out a warbling sound that was closer to a sick cat than a goat. It was just so utterly ridiculous sounding that he collapsed in silent laughter by the couch.

Sherlock wasn't doing much better. Bent over at the waist with one hand supporting him on the table and the other wrapped around his stomach, he rattled the table a little as he fought to get enough air to keep playing the game.

"That's right," he gasped. "Just like that for Farmer Holmes."

In a nondescript office not far away, Anthea watched the newly installed video surveillance of 221B Baker Street's sitting room with a raised eyebrow. It was hard to believe these were _grown men_. And even harder to believe one was related to her boss. Mycroft Holmes, who suffered no fools and came up with such inventive punishments as surveillance duty for one _tiny _miscalculation...

As she watched the Doctor and the Detective roll around and moan lewd things an evil idea crept into her head...

Half an hour later, Mycroft had a seemingly innocuous e-mail waiting for him titled "221B Surveillance Update" with an attached audio file.


	15. Shelter from the Storm

**Shelter from the Storm**

How was it that the murdering sod they were following got to have an umbrella in this downpour, and they, the good guys, didn't?

"Too conspicuous," Sherlock said, apparently reading the look of umbrella envy on John's face.

"Sorry, I missed the part where being thoroughly soaked made us invisible," John replied dryly.

Sherlock deemed his words worth nothing more than a withering glare and broke into a jog as their target crossed the street and disappeared around a corner. John gave a long suffering sigh and followed, pulling his left arm into his side a little in an attempt to keep dull throb in his shoulder to a minimum. Damp weather like this always made it a bit more sensitive than usual.

Sherlock had just rounded the corner ahead of him when he slid to a stop and dropped into a low crouch. John, his thoughts on his shoulder and a hot shower, almost went careening over him and very narrowly missed the swinging fist Sherlock had been avoiding with his move.

He jerked back a step, looking to find his center of gravity again so he could take down their attacker, but Sherlock got there first. Springing upwards, he rammed into the killer with a rather impressive rugby tackle – actually lifting him off the ground a bit before slamming him to the ground. John couldn't help but wince – he wouldn't want those boney shoulders jabbing into _his_ torso. As the shocked man struggled to replace his sudden loss of air, Sherlock followed up with a swift elbow to the face. Again, John cringed. He'd been on the wrong end of one of those elbows before - like getting jabbed with a bloody butter knife…

It certainly got the job done, though. The man slumped into unconsciousness on top of his umbrella without so much as a peep, rain soaking into previously dry clothes and beating down on his slack features. John was warmed a little by a flame of vindictive pleasure – if he had to be soaking wet, then damn it, so did that guy.

"Text Lestrade while I secure him," Sherlock said, pulling a zip tie from one of the pockets of his coat.

John huddled over his phone next to the nearest wall, trying to protect it from the worst of the weather while he typed out their location. Water trickled from the building's edge directly down the back of his neck, sending a violent shiver through him and making his shoulder complain loudly.

Then, as he typed the last of the message, it stopped. He gave a sigh of relief as he tucked the phone back in his pocket and looked up, expecting to see clearing skies at last. Instead, he saw the killer's slightly crumpled umbrella being held over him by Sherlock, who was staring off down the street.

"Being inconspicuous is no longer necessary," he said, not looking at John.

John tipped his head down to hide his grin – he doubted it was coincidence that Sherlock had positioned himself so John's left side would be warmed by the detective body heat. Shuffling a half a step closer, John glanced up, catching the softening of Sherlock's expression.

Maybe the rain wasn't so bad after all.


	16. Ready, Set, DEDUCE!

**Ready, Set, DEDUCE!**

"Woman in red by window – visiting her boyfriend from Kyoto, is expecting a proposal but he's in fact going to end their relationship," Sherlock said in one breath.

"Childs play, dear brother. The barista with what he wishes will one day be a beard – dropped out of uni two weeks ago where he was studying medicine and has decided to focus on becoming a drummer in a punk band instead," Mycroft said loftily.

John's gaze ping-ponged back to Sherlock as he took a bite from his pastry, enjoying the odd show that had been going on in front of him for the better part of an hour. In some strange Holmesian tradition, Sherlock and Mycroft had met up this morning for nothing more than what John had dubbed a "Deduce Off". Sherlock had explained earlier that it was something they had done often when they were younger, but over time had slipped to once a year. Like their own little Olympics of privacy invasion, they sat and observed the people around them, each trying to come up with the best deduction.

John could do a bit of deduction himself about how it usually turned out when he'd asked about previous years' winners and Sherlock had turned surly and snappish…

"Obvious," Sherlock snorted, eyes sweeping the café again. "Teenager that just walked in – has just realized he's gay after having spent last night shagging his best friend. Comes from a strict, religious family and is thinking of running away."

"Really, Sherlock, do at least _try_. Or maybe the years have lessened your observation skills if that's the best you can come up with. Couple to the left in the matching cardigans – belong to a book club, cooking class, and are members of the Audubon Society, Amnesty International and sponsor two African children."

"Dull _and_ obvious. The woman-"

"You didn't let me _finish_," Mycroft interrupted with a sickly sweet smile. "They've also engaged in pony play for years and belong to and S&M club two blocks from here. Lately they've been taking things further and are considering making a snuff film in their basement using a prostitute. They've already committed one murder in the form of the husband's wealthy mother, but that was very… _hands off,_ and not satisfying other than financially."

Sherlock studied the couple silently for two full minutes before his mouth tightened and he hissed out a furious, "_Damn_." He swept out of the café without another word.

John sighed as he stood up and pulled on his coat. Sherlock would be in a strop for the rest of the week now that Mycroft had secured the Deduction Gold from yet another year running…


	17. Rest and- Oh, hell

**Rest and- Oh, hell…**

John threw another tissue on the growing mountain beside the couch, knowing it was gross but lacking the energy to do anything about it. What had started as a slight tickle in his throat yesterday had morphed into a hacking cough and a disgustingly runny nose over the past twelve hours. After dragging himself downstairs for some tea, he'd been lured to the couch - not by comfort (the bloody thing felt like it'd been stuffed with old trainers if you stayed on it for more than fifteen minutes, he wasn't sure how Sherlock could lounge about on it like he did), but by a wonderful lack of stairs that had to be managed to get to it. Right now he was wondering if the knobby wad of shifted stuffing pressing uncomfortably into his kidney was still worth not having to go up the stairs…

There was one saving grace to the miserable day of sickness and gentle torture by a piece of furniture though – Sherlock was out.

John was the type that wanted nothing more than to be left alone when he was sick. No one fussing over him, no one seeing him huddle in a cocoon of blankets, snuggling a box of tissues, generally being a mess. So the fact that his flatmate was out - not there flouncing around, berating how weak John's body was for not conquering mere germs, wanting to do experiments on his leaking mucus membranes - was nothing short of a blessing in John's eyes. He actually had some peace and quiet to just rest and-

The door downstairs slammed and the stairs were taken two at a time.

John's groan was drowned out by the door opening hard enough to smack the wall behind it.

"John! Get dressed, we have- What's happened to you?"

The question wasn't one of concern, it was pure curiosity and seconds later it was backed by Sherlock's face hovering inches from his own, fingers prodding swollen glands mercilessly.

"Gerroff," John coughed, pushing Sherlock's poking fingers away. "'m sick."

"Obvious. You shouldn't have jumped into the Thames the other night."

If John's throat weren't so sore, he'd have pointed out that he jumped in only to save a certain consulting detective from death by drowning in that great, heavy coat of his that absorbed water like a damn sponge. He settled for a glare and a sniffle.

"Well, there was a case that held some mild interest, but you're in no shape for the stakeout of the abandoned warehouses it would require."

"You can't go alone," John blurted, the fact that he wanted some peace losing out against the thought of what Sherlock would get into without him.

"Of course not. I'm good, but not good enough to watch two buildings on opposite sides at the same time. It'll have to wait until you're well, I suppose," he said with a sigh of already budding ennui. "Luckily, there's not a set time limit, so your illness won't hinder the investigation _too_ badly."

John's reply was a wet blow into a fresh tissue. So much for his restful day of recuperation – Sherlock was already clattering around in the kitchen, banging glassware together and yelling about John moving the severed foot in the freezer to a different shelf and how it could've negated the results of his experiment.

And, really, in his heart of hearts, John wouldn't have it any other way.

Except…

"Sherlock, what are you doing with my used tissues…"


	18. Tending Your Watson

Author's Note - Well, this is the last of the little one-shots I've stored up. I'll add more as I find prompts that inspire me, but this is the last of the daily updates. Thanks so much to all of you that favorited, followed and reviewed! It seriously makes my day knowing you all are reading and enjoying what I write.

**Tending Your Watson**

"John, hand me my-"

Sherlock's mouth froze and as much as John wanted to smirk at actually rendering the genius speechless, he forced his face into a look of innocent curiosity.

"Hand you your…"

"You've been in a _fight_," Sherlock accused, catapulting off the couch and swooping down on John.

John gave a little questioning sound and looked down at himself. He _did_ look a mess, really. Torn clothes, bloody knuckles, a missing fingernail. He was also sure he had the beginnings of a black eye and could feel the swollen split in his lip. He gave a shrug – he'd had worse. A lot worse…

"Just a little scuffle at the pub."

"The pub?"

"With Greg."

At Sherlock's blank look, John gave a sigh and shook his head.

"You didn't even know I'd gone out, did you?"

"Beside the point. How did this '_scuffle'_ come about?" Sherlock asked, grabbing John by the shirtsleeve and dragging him toward the couch.

John went along, watching in bemusement as Sherlock collected a bowl of water and the first-aid kit.

"Uh, well, quite silly, really. Greg got himself pretty pissed - having trouble with the wife again, you know. He might've been running off at the mouth a little at this group at the table next to ours about what crap their football team was- ouch!"

Sherlock had taken a seat next to him and produced a pair of tweezers, plucking a piece of gravel from John's palm. He studied intensely for a moment, before turning that sharp gaze on John again, sweeping over him and stopping on his midsection. John batted away his hands as they reached for the bottom of his jumper.

"Sherlock! Leave off, it's fine," John most certainly did not _whine_ while he tried to keep Sherlock's octopus-like appendages from seeing the boot impressions John was sure were decorating his ribs.

"You took a beating from four- no five opponents. That is _not_ fine. And on your own, as well. Where was Lestrade during all of this?"

John looked away sheepishly as Sherlock finally slithered around his defenses and rucked up his jumper, hissing air through his teeth as he took in the bruising John was sure was going to be quite colorful over the next few days.

"Sent him off in a cab right before," John said. "He was about to pass out - no use in him sticking around for it."

"You should've texted me."

John actually laughed, making Sherlock look up at him sharply from where he was prodding John's ribs. John quieted at the offended look that came over Sherlock's face.

"You actually would've come? Figured a pub fight would be too dull for you."

"Ribs aren't broken," Sherlock said quietly, pulling John's jumper back down and reaching for the cloth next to the bowl of water.

John reached out and laid a hand on his forearm, drawing Sherlock's eyes back to his.

"I'll text you next time."

Sherlock stayed stiff and still for a moment, seemingly searching for a lie in John's words. Not finding one, he gave a nod and began methodically cleaning John's wounds with an attentiveness he'd never seen the detective give anything alive. When he was disinfected and bandaged (maybe with a bit more enthusiasm than was strictly necessary), he stood with a yawn.

"I'm off to bed," he said, stretching a little and then rubbing his ribs ruefully.

Sherlock hummed an acknowledgement and began putting things back in the first-aid box. Looking down at him, John couldn't help but reach out and run a hand through those curls, prompting widened grey eyes to snap up to his.

"Thanks, Sherlock," he smiled, and with a gentle ruffle, left the detective speechless once again.

A week later, he was grabbing his coat on his way out to meet Greg again when Sherlock appeared next to him, already donning his coat and scarf.

"I'd like a pint, as well," Sherlock said haughtily, brushing past John to the door.

And if Sherlock didn't drink a single thing all night and gave everyone around them a suspicious eye… Well, John didn't point that out and found he didn't mind in the least.


End file.
